Author: darkhavensTitle: A Family That Plays Together...Fandom: Pairing: Boondock Saints: Connor McManus/Murphy McManusRating: NC-17/AdultWords: 3x100Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments. Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.Warnings/Squicks: Bondage, incest, mention of a ball-gag, mention of sharing a womb, knifeplay, minor bloodlettingNotes: Written for writercon100 off slashthedrabble's prompts 182: Bound, 030: Wet and 076: Blood

Charlie Bronson Never Had This Much Fun

"I bet Charlie Bronson never had this much fun with his rope."

Connor didn't answer, too intent on tightening the last knot before lifting his head to see the crazy, shit-eating grin on his brother's face. Murphy was thoroughly immobilized, bound wrist to ankle, splayed out on his back, completely naked.

"You know, I think we've still got that ball-gag around here somewhere. Want me to see if I can dig it out and plug that stupid great hole in the middle of your face?"

Murphy's tongue slid back and forth across his lower lip.

"Why waste a great hole?"

More Elbow Room

The loft's boiler is small and cranky; there's only ever time enough for one decently-warm shower before the water's cold again. So they share.

It's no great hardship; they've been comfortable in each other's personal spaces since they were in the womb. The only difference is, now they have more elbow room. And waterproof lube.

And a single-minded dedication to their carnal pursuits that means they hardly ever notice their toes are turning blue until they're breathing hard and spattered with come, in need of cooling down.

They'll get the damn thing fixed soon enough; Connor's found this huge bathtub…

That Tickles

The blade is curved and the tip is needle-sharp, unforgiving. Connor drags it, slow as molasses, over Murphy's left clavicle and down across his sweat-slick chest to the tight brown berry of his nipple. And there it lingers, tracing out a spider's web about the circumference of his aureole; leaving hair-fine trails of barely-there blood in its wake as it skips and kisses back and forth, steel-sharp and hungry for a deeper cut.

"Connor…"

The knife stops, tip burrowed into flesh but not quite hard enough to split the skin.